by Claire King
Donkeys, says Maman.
Donkeys, I say.
Watch out you don’t get kicked.
They don’t kick. They just eat grass.
Right.
Ooh look, paella, says Margot, and she is right. In a van across the square, in a flat round pan, a rainbow pile of paella steams smells of the seaside over to our noses. Salty, fishy, yellow smells. My stomach gurgles. Margot laughs.
Go on then, says Margot. I bet you can’t get us some.
I wonder what I could possibly say that would make Maman want to buy us some paella. I make lists in my head. It smells good, but we haven’t much money. She wouldn’t have to cook, but she doesn’t eat much these days anyway. She likes yellow. She likes mussels, but not now she’s got the baby in her tummy. Papa used to like paella.
That paella smells delicious, I say eventually.
Maman stops and looks over at the big black skillet full of rice and prawns and peppers and shiny black shells. She rests her hands on her belly.
Go on! says Margot.
Papa liked paella, I say.
Maman stares harder at the paella. People are pushing around her all the time. They’re cross at her blocking their way through the market until they get around the front of her and see her big baby-belly, with her hard breathing making it go up and down, up and down, and how she is looking at the paella, with the tears coming out of her like rain.
Pass me the bowl, I say to Margot.
Even the kitchen is hot today. The only parts of me that are cool are the bottom of my feet on the floor tiles. Upstairs Maman and the baby are having a siesta under the fan. Me and Margot have decided to make up for me making Maman cry in the market by getting some lunch ready for when they get up. We have had to use what we found in the fridge and the pantry. This is what we have found:
Cheese, three different sorts. Milk. Cornichons. Jam. Cold chicken. Tapenade. Lettuce. Courgettes. Dried apricots. There are also sausages and pork belly but we can’t eat those because they are not cooked.
We also have the bread from the market, and tomatoes.
We need to have goodness and flavour, I say.
And colour and texture, says Margot.
And love, I say. When Maman was still singing she cooked all the time and she taught us the right ingredients for a recipe. You have to have all of those things and also you have to have variety, and you have to smile when you are cooking or else the food tastes bad.
We can make a salad, I say.
You can eat goodness, says Margot, but you can’t eat naughtiness.
I think about it, and she’s right. You don’t get naughty food.
I haven’t used the milk because it is too wet, and I haven’t used the jam because it doesn’t rhyme with any of the other flavours.
I tear up the lettuce and put it in the salad bowl. I can’t reach the kitchen sink so I take the bowl outside to the courtyard tap. The water comes out warm, almost hot, and the lettuce shrinks a little bit, but I tip the water away quickly and I think it will be all right.
Margot has already found the grater and put it on the kitchen table with a chopping board.
Thank you, I say.
You’re welcome, she says. Today we are being super-polite.
I grate the courgettes into the bowl of lettuce and then we tear up the chicken that is left and put that in too. We find the wishbone and try to pull it, but it is too greasy, so I put it on the side to dry out. I’m not allowed to use the sharp knives so I get a dinner knife out of the drawer for cutting the tomatoes and cheese. The cornichons can go in whole.
The bread won’t cut with a normal knife, so I break up one of yesterday’s baguettes on a tray and put it out into the sunshine to dry. Papa used to do that. It is midday and the courtyard is hot like an oven, trapping all the heat in the walls of the house and the barn and making us turn pink. I want to take off my clothes but I know that would be worse. My skin is not the right skin for that. I have Maman’s skin. But I have Papa’s mouth. That is what they told me.
We have to stay out here to keep the swallows and the ants away from the bread while it toasts. Then it will be croûtons. So Margot and I take turns. One of us splashes tap water on our face and throat and hands while the other shoos the swallows away and disturbs the procession of ants. If you put things in their way, like twigs and leaves and crumbs of bread, they get very confused; it’s funny to watch. Then we swap. We stay out as long as we can bear, until I think I really am going to toast just like the bread, and then I say, OK, it should be done now. But the tray has got too hot to hold. I run back indoors to get another bowl and pick the pieces off one by one. We spread them with butter and tapenade and toss them in with the rest of the salad. I pour on some olive oil and do the salt and pepper. The salad actually looks very beautiful. I feel quite proud of what we have made. I want to go and wake up Maman to show her, but we decide to wait.
While we wait we sit at the table and play pat-a-cake until we hear the bedroom door open then the taps running in the bathroom.
Quick, says Margot, lay the table.
I set our places and wait for Maman to come down. She is wearing her yellow dress again, floating down the stairs, her cheeks pink, her eyes red.
There is a salad for lunch, I say.
A salad, how lovely, she says, pouring herself a glass of water.
It has goodness and flavour in it, I say.
And colour and texture, says Margot.
And love, I say, although it makes me feel shy.
Maman looks into the bowl. The salad still looks beautiful, although not as beautiful as it did at first because it has been on the table in the hot kitchen for a while and the lettuce leaves look a bit floppy and heavy with oil.
I didn’t use the jam, I say. It didn’t rhyme.
It looks lovely, she says. I’m not actually very hungry, though. I might just have some fruit.
She takes a peach out of the bowl and rinses it under the tap. The water soaks the skin, making it darker.
Why do peaches have skin that lets the water in? I ask.
Not like apples, says Margot.
Not like us, I say.
I don’t know, says Maman. Skin is all different. You have my skin.
I know, I say. And Papa’s mouth.
What? Maman’s head snaps back to look at me.
Nothing, I say, and watch as she sinks her teeth into the yellow peach.
What are you up to this afternoon? she says.
Just playing in the meadow, I say. Don’t worry, I’ll watch out for the donkeys.
And wear your hat.
Yes, Maman. Unless you want me to do some cleaning?
Cleaning?
If you wanted?
Cleaning what?
I look at Margot. She mimes mopping.
The floors, maybe?
Peony, you’re five years old. Why would I want you to clean the floors?
Sorry, it was just an idea.
Go on, off you go. I’ve got things to do.
OK.
Margot and I pick the chicken out of the bowl quickly with our fingers and put the rest in the fridge for later.
The cooking didn’t work, I say as we walk down through the orchard.
Not salad, anyway.
But she said she didn’t want me to clean.
I don’t think that’s important, says Margot. Sometimes grownups don’t know what makes them happy either.
Claude is sitting on the grass in the shade of the mulberry tree as usual, smoking a cigarette and listening to the birds. He has one leg stuck out straight and the other bent. Merlin is lying nearby, panting hard. He is wet.
Is Merlin OK? I ask.
He’s just old, says Claude. And he’s like you; he runs and runs and doesn’t slow down much, even in this weather. But it’s not very good for him. We’d better be getting home soon.
But we just got here, I say.
I’m sorry, says Claude. Maybe you could play in the g
irl-nest. Merlin’s my friend too and he needs to go home for a rest.
Shall we put on a show for you? asks Margot.
We could do a spectacle, I say. Even better than before.
Maybe tomorrow, says Claude.
I sit down under the shade of the tree, far away from Claude and Merlin. I cross my arms and scowl.
Claude peers at me. I saw you here once last year, he says. You were underneath this tree.
I saw you too, I say.
We weren’t scared, says Margot.
We weren’t scared at all, I say.
I was, a little bit, says Claude. I thought you were going to pounce on me.
We would have pounced on you if you had come much closer, I say.
I’d better watch out!
Not now!
Why not now?
Because now we know who you are, I laugh.
Claude’s eyebrows go up and down, but he doesn’t say anything.
Margot makes her eyebrows go up and down too. I laugh some more.
I like it when you laugh, Claude says.
I know some good jokes, says Margot. We can make you laugh too. Knock, knock?
You shouldn’t listen to Margot’s knock-knock jokes, I say. They’re rubbish.
OK, Pea, want to walk with us up to the gate? Claude gets to his feet and Merlin follows with a grumble.
Of course, I say.
As we walk back up the hill I grab on to Claude’s finger. I’m tired, you have to pull me up, I say. He doesn’t take his finger away. So we go like that all the way up to the road, with Margot holding on to my finger on the other side and Merlin slinking behind us in our shadows.
Aïe! says Claude as we pass the brambles on the path. His legs don’t fit the path, they are too big and he always wears shorts. The long branches have tangled on to his socks and fresh red scratches criss-cross his legs. He bends over and unpicks the thorns from the sock, threading the long thorny trailer off the path and back into the tangle.
Are you all right? I say.
Every day I get another scratch from these bushes, says Claude. Those blackberries had better be worth it.
I look at the bushes. The blackberries are turning. The red ones now are half black and I think in a few days we will be able to taste them. Green punaises are starting to queue up on the leaves. Once the berries are ripe it is going to be a race.
As the path opens out again into grazing, the donkeys pass us at a trot. I look up to see Josette, standing at the gate with a bag of peelings. She sees us coming but does not wave. Claude squirms his finger out of my grip.
I wave at Josette and she lifts one hand off the gate. Still not really a proper wave but I know she has seen me. Then the donkeys have bustled in front of her for their food and she is hidden behind their donkey-bums.
Josette gave me this haircut, I tell Claude.
He looks down at me but he won’t stop and squat to listen like he usually does.
Josette cut my hair, I shout. Claude is not listening now, he is walking faster and faster. Merlin is trotting at his side but he is whining.
Never mind, I say, I’ll tell you later.
Hello, Josette, says Claude.
Hello, Claude, says Josette, opening the gate for us. What a nice day. She says it is a nice day but she does not smile.
Hello, Josette, I say.
Hello, Ragamuffin, she replies, smoothing the hair back off my forehead.
I have got so many names it is getting very confusing. Most people call me Pea, I tell her.
What are you doing down in the meadow, Pea? Josette asks.
She is standing in front of the sun, so she is mostly just a purple shadow and I have to squint to look at her. We play down here every day, I say. It’s more fun than the house. We don’t hurt the donkeys and they don’t kick us.
I am four years old and Pea is five and a half, says Margot. We are big girls. And we know where all the best shade is, and where the fairies live.
Josette raises her eyebrows. And you, Claude?
I’m walking my dog, since you ask, says Claude. He sounds cross. I’ve only ever heard Claude sound cross once before, and that was when we were in danger. Unless Josette is a witch, which we decided she wasn’t, then we are not in danger. I don’t really understand it.
Merlin is magic, I say to Josette, as a sort of test.
A magic dog, incredible, she says. Well, why don’t you run off home now? I’m sure your mother is worried about you. I’ll see you across the road. This is not a question. So we let her see us across the road and we run up the path. Behind us we hear Josette shout.
Wait!
We turn, but it is not us she is shouting at. Claude and Merlin are heading towards their house and Josette is following them, running, shouting.
Stop right there! she shouts. Claude doesn’t turn but she catches him up anyway. For an old lady she can run very fast. Then they start having an argument. Standing there by the fence. The donkeys are watching, we are watching. Merlin is lying down in the grass. It is too hot for him. Claude is waving his arms about. Josette is waving hers too. Their shoulders go up and down.
What’s wrong with Josette and Claude? I ask Margot.
Some sort of grownup thing, says Margot. Grownups argue about really stupid things.
Hmph, I say. I’m quite hungry; are you?
Starving, says Margot.
We’d better not eat the peaches, I say. There are hardly any left as it is.
Well there is something delicious in the fridge, at least, says Margot.
Oh yes, I say. I had forgotten about our cooking. I’m tired too.
Do you think Maman would notice if we eat it in bed?
I shouldn’t think so.
Chapter 15
My room is in the blue half-dark. The frogs are still calling and the crickets too, but there is also the sound of swallows and a cockerel crowing. Papa is melting.
I tighten my eyes as closed as I can make them. Stay, stay! I say out loud as he mushes up into grey, his smile, his smell. It had been perfect. The dream had gone on for so long. I kept waking up then falling back asleep and dreaming the same dream. Papa, smelling of outdoors, of rain and hay and tractor oil. Papa standing in the doorway at the foot of the stairs, his arms open for me, bending as I ran into them. His arms wrapping me tight and lifting me up high for a kiss, to smell his skin, to put my head on his shoulder. I try to stretch my dream, to pull it into the morning, to keep the smells. But trying so hard to keep the dream is making me wake up even more.
Wait, Papa! I haven’t told you about the girl-nest and Claude and, Papa, your tractor is all peachy …
Where are my tractor boots? Papa’s voice is saying. Where are my tractor boots?
Maman had them to kill the scorpion.
Where’s Maman?
She’s sleeping.
Where is your maman?
I don’t know.
I think we’ve gone and lost her, Pea. Papa’s voice dissolves into the colours behind my eyes.
I’m sorry, Papa. I don’t know how to find her, I say.
Papa has gone. He didn’t even say goodbye. I open my eyes, but there is just the room and I feel ashamed.
I roll back over to face the wall and screw my eyes shut again. I want to go back to sleep but the cockerel is crowing and the swallows are chattering and right now I am angry with them. They are taking away the cool, empty dark with their noise and their hot whiteness. They are taking away my papa and he will not come back.
I feel the darkness inside me, heavy like I swallowed a big cold rock and it scraped my insides on the way down. I start shaking, the sobs come in through my stomach and out through my mouth and I curl tight into a ball and let the sobs shake me wide awake.
After a while, Margot wakes up. Although my back is to the room I can feel when she is awake and I turn over to see. Margot is sitting up with her legs crossed.
Don’t worry, my little flea, she says, and I smile. She sound
s like Claude and that makes me feel better.
I dreamt about Papa, I say.
Did you? says Margot. What did he say?
I can’t remember.
I dreamt about playing tennis at the beach, says Margot. We had orange tennis rackets, but no ball, so it was very funny.
That does sound funny, I say.
Where shall we go today?
Low meadow, I say. Let’s go to the girl-nest and see what Claude has left for us.
Just then Maman pokes her head around the door. Her hair is all down over her face and her eyes are still half asleep.
What’s all the screaming? she says.
Sorry, I say, it was a nightmare.
Maman sits on the edge of my bed, making it creak. She puts a hand on my leg and looks down at me. What were you dreaming about? she says.
Nothing.
It can’t have been nothing.
It was a nice dream, I say. I was scared when it stopped.
Maman’s face is waking up. She is looking right at me.
I have those dreams too, she says. Right. The bed creaks as she hoicks herself up again. Her belly is so big now she is definitely going to fall over backwards. If she does I’m not sure what I could do to help, which is worrying.
Get dressed, says Maman. Breakfast.
Be careful, I say.
She smiles with half her mouth and says, OK, Pea, I will. What do you want to wear?
I shrug. I have run out of clean clothes. Maman looks in my wardrobe and pulls out the lilac dress that was my favourite last summer.
This is your favourite, right? You can wear this.
I smile and take the dress. It is a dress for the four-year-old me. When I put it on it is much too tight, but somehow I like how it makes me feel.
While we are having our breakfast, the mouse skitters out from behind the curtain, right behind Maman. I hold my breath. Margot pouts. We like the mouse. But grownups don’t like mice and Maman probably is going to want to kill it.
We’re right. Maman sees the mouse out of the corner of her eye and leaves the table to fetch a mousetrap from the pantry. She takes down a sausage from its pointy hook and a sharp knife from the sink. She gives it a wipe. Then she chops off the end of the sausage, leaving on the metal clip and the dangling string, and loads it on to the mousetrap. The mice in our house like sausage.